Chapter Text
"What the hell?" said Katz. "Is that--"
"Yeah, I know, it's kinda flashy." Will shut the car door behind him and patted his pockets for the little fob to lock the car. Apparently all cars these days came with keyless ignition. Will thought to himself, rather uneasily, that he didn't know how cars worked anymore. This morning when he'd turned on the car, it'd asked for his destination and even offered to drive him there. Will had yelled NO! at it a number of times, like the car was a new dog that hadn't learned the rules yet.
"Isn't that Hannibal Lecter's car?"
The car beeped to indicate it was locked. "Yeah, I guess so." Will walked away, toward the field, Katz on his heels. "I needed a new car."
"So you bought the cannibal car?"
Will hunched his shoulders and walked faster. "It was cheap."
"Yeah, because nobody wanted the cannibal car! Hannibal Lecter died in that car."
"What do you care?" Will demanded. "You're not the one driving it."
Katz flapped her hands. "Because we're friends. Friendly. And I care about you. And it makes me uncomfortable to know you're driving a car with such intensely bad karma. He carried bodies in that trunk, who knows how many bodies."
"Well it's been cleaned and detailed," said Will. "It's just a car. And the price was right."
-----
The man was still in the tree, bees buzzing around him, honey dripping down his cheeks from empty eye sockets. He was arranged like he'd simply gone to sleep and never woke up, lying on his side with head pillowed on his folded hands. Price and Zeller were already there, clothed in white beekeeper suits. Jack stood a more respectful distance away, hands in his pockets. Katz accepted the offer of a suit from one of the local police, but Will waved it away. He wasn't afraid of a few bees, and he didn't plan on getting that close. He squinted into the bright sunlight; it made his head hurt.
"Local police were supposed to exterminate the bees," Jack said, "but Price shut that down. Something about Colony Collapse."
"No reason to hasten their extinction, and by proxy, ours," Price called. "Beekeepers will cut out the comb tonight, while the bees are asleep, and move them into their new hive."
Katz looked horrified. "They'll destroy all the evidence!"
"It's half-destroyed already by bees," Zeller muttered. He was clearly having trouble maneuvering the camera while wearing gloves, but he kept the shutter whirring.
"Do bees naturally hive in animal or human carcasses?" Jack queried.
"No," Will said immediately. "Decomposition and the presence of other insect life makes it too unstable for a swarm to colonize. Someone probably hived these bees here on purpose."
"Author of the standard monograph on determining time of death by insect activity, ladies and gentlemen," said Katz.
"That doesn't usually include bees," Will muttered.
"Matches the evidence." Zeller was peering into the corpse's eye sockets and mouth with a flashlight. "Looks like the eyes and part of the brain were removed to make room for our busy friends."
"Removed? Not scavenged?" Jack asked.
Zeller shook his head, flicking his flashlight off. "It's hard to tell, but it looks like a clean job. Surgical."
"Other animals wouldn't have been able to get close enough to take the eyes, and certainly not the brain," said Will. "Not with all these bees around."
"Anything else for us?" Jack gave Will a pointed look.
Will sighed. "You say the eyes and brain were removed?"
"Part of the brain," Zeller clarified.
"The frontal lobe?"
"I'm no neurosurgeon, but sure," said Zeller.
"He was lobotomized," said Will. "If you check around the eye sockets, you'll see evidence of a sharp instrument, like an ice pick. Transorbital lobotomy; used to be fashionable to perform them on mental patients in the 1940s." Will paused to let a chill chase its way down his spine.
"So what is this, some kind of hate crime?" said Jack. "Did the killer think this person was mentally ill?"
"The killer's the one who's mentally ill, don't you think?" said Will. "They're lobotomizing people and planting beehives in their heads. At the very least, you know the killer's comfortable with bees," Will added.
"Hmm." Jack sounded noncommittal and dissatisfied at the same time. "Come for the autopsy tomorrow."
-----
The car hummed to life around Will as soon as he slid into the seat, supposedly a convenient response to someone unlocking the doors and getting into the driver's seat but which Will found creepy as fuck. And an unnecessary boon to thieves, though the car could supposedly distinguish between legitimate and illegitimate attempts to unlock it. Will wouldn't be surprised if the car could learn Will's height and weight too. It was equipped with all kinds of radar, inside and outside, to help it "see" its environment.
The dash lit up. Apparently cars didn't come with old-fashioned needles and meters anymore, either. Everything was colorful LED displays informing Will of his current speed, the amount of fuel he had left, miles traveled. A touchscreen on the dashboard featured a Google map of Will's current location and, if desired, directions to the destination. It could also toggle to display what music was currently playing, the weather, and the contact list from his cell phone.
"What is your destination?" the car asked in a pleasant robotic voice. It'd come with several voice options; Will had picked a vaguely British female as the least irritating. He hadn't found an option to have no voice at all.
"Home," Will told it. "And no, you're not driving me there."
"I understand that you do not want to engage the self-drive," said the car, with an emphasis on not. "Statistically, it is safer for you and those around you if you engage the self-drive. Most recently, in Maine an accident was preven--"
"I know," said Will. "I'll take my life in my own hands, thanks. Just shut up and let me drive."
And why wouldn't he want to drive the car himself? It handled like a dream. The steering wheel responded to the smallest touch, and the lightest tap of the gas pedal sent the car surging forward. And it was so quiet; he'd taken the car almost up to a hundred once, on a straight and clear part of the interstate, and had been both exhilarated and terrified by how that hadn't felt like anything at all. He kind of wanted to take the car to a racetrack or something and really tear loose. Instead, he crawled through the traffic that surrounded Quantico on a Friday afternoon, crept past construction, and finally turned the car down the badly maintained rural road to his house. The car's suspension could more than handle it, but it shouldn't have to. He should at least patch up his driveway.
The garage had once been a barn and still looked like one, with high ceilings and a wood exterior. Will used it mostly for storage: a chest freezer for extra fish; extra dog food; an old recliner Will kept meaning to haul to the dump. There was a space just big enough to park a car. The Volvo had looked at home among Will's things; the Bentley, all sleek lines and midnight blue, looked like a peacock in a dumpster. Will hauled down the garage door and headed to the house.
A young woman waited for him on the porch. She had long dark hair, blue eyes, and white skin. She sat by the door with her hands folded in her lap. A long gash ran across her throat, nearly from ear to ear. Blood wept from its edges. Dried blood stained her blouse. She stared at Will, unsmiling, as he mounted the steps to the porch.
Will ignored her and went into the house.